Dating You / Hating You

by Christina Lauren

  “Dick!” Morgan screams, and we watch Jonah storm out of the restaurant.

  “On that note,” Steph says, checking the time, “my class starts in ten.” She kisses each of us on the head—Morgan twice—grabs her gym bag, and heads out.

  Michael Christopher cuts up some more of his waffle into bite-size pieces and slides them onto his daughter’s plate. But Morgan, tired of sitting quietly, has climbed out of her seat and relocated to my lap. Michael watches us, his face slowly melting into a floppy expression of fondness. I know what he’s thinking—he wants this for me. He wants us to meet for breakfast on Sundays and watch our kids play together; he wants our wives to be the best of friends. I don’t need to be a genius to know he still wants me to find that with Evie. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I wanted it a little, too. I was never on the right page with Gwen, but something tells me I might have found it with Evie. We’d probably kill each other first, but who knows, that might have been part of the fun.

  “You have your dad’s face on,” I tell him.

  “I do not have my dad’s face on.”

  “Yeah you do.” I lift a hand, drawing a vague circle in the air. “You get all glassy-eyed and sentimental, like you’re mentally embroidering our names on a quilt.”

  “All this talk of sabotage is going to make it really awkward for me to make the toast at your guys’ wedding.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but I think that ship sailed about the same time I was refilling her lotion bottle on Friday afternoon.”

  Michael picks up his mug and looks at me over the top of it, smug. “I forgot Steph had a cat for a week when she was on a trip in college, and I’m still here. You never know. Besides, you seem strangely optimistic—dare I say, chipper—for a man who plans to die this week. One might even think you’re enjoying this a little.”

  My face says no, but the jump in my pulse as he mirrors my earlier thoughts says otherwise. Evil would cut off my balls and hand them to me if she thought it would give her an edge. And while that’s not particularly appealing, the idea that I have to constantly keep up is. Evie is smarter, and there’s a rush of adrenaline in having to work to stay one step ahead.

  If only I knew how to do that.

  • • •

  Mildly obsessing over my next move, I barely sleep Sunday night, and feel like a walking time bomb the next morning.

  I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Burning bags of excrement on my porch? To be accosted by hired ninjas in the stairway? Both of these possibilities seem highly unlikely, and yet I look out the peephole before I leave, peek around the corner as I head to the stairs, even check beneath the hood of my car before I start it.

  Get a grip, Carter.

  I try to laugh off my nerves as I turn the key and the engine comes to life without exploding into a ball of fire. Maybe the best retaliation is no retaliation at all. Damn you, Evie.

  Traffic is better than usual this morning, and with my second cup of coffee down by the time I get to work, I’ve regained a bit of my nerve.

  Justin is out sick today, and I make small talk with a couple of the interns as I pass. Kylie looks frazzled about something, but I steer clear, stopping by the Keurig in the break room before officially starting my day.

  It’s regular. I check.

  My door is still locked, a good sign. Evie’s light is on, but her door is closed, and if I’m careful not to jangle my keys or make any unnecessary noise it’s because I’m considerate, not scared.

  Nothing has changed. My computer is where I left it; my stapler is still on the corner of my desk. The words DIE CARTER DIE aren’t scribbled on the wall in poop or blood.

  I’m calling it a win.

  Still, I close the door quietly and tiptoe to my desk. I log into the network, wincing, but the computer seems normal, too. I pull up an address and answer a few emails, grab the papers I need, and then casually lean to the side, where I can usually get a view of Evie’s legs. No dice.

  I’m just about to head out when my phone rings.

  “This is Carter.”

  “Hello?” I think the caller says. I fiddle with the volume.

  “Hello,” I repeat. “This is Carter Aaron. Hello?” The voice on the other end is so faint, I find myself squinting as I try to hear. “I’m sorry, I think we have a bad connection. Can you call back? Hello?”

  The line disconnects, only to ring a moment later.

  “Carter Aaron,” I say.

  “Carter, this is Caleb,” I make out. Caleb Ferraz, Dan Printz’s manager. We’ve been playing phone tag for two weeks now.

  “Caleb, there’s . . . Can you hear me? I think there’s something wrong with my phone.” I’m shouting. I look at the handset, shaking it before bringing it back to my ear. “Can you call my cell?”

  “Can’t,” I think I make out. Followed by “Taking off.” There are more words, but I’m not sure whether I’m hearing them or just making them up. “Dan . . . talk . . . trip . . . weeks.”

  Fuck.

  “Caleb, send me a text when you can and I’ll talk to you soon!”

  I think he says good-bye, but I’m not even sure. I hang up and dial Michael Christopher’s number. He answers and it’s more of the same. I think he can hear me, but there’s no way to tell because I can’t hear him. I send him a text letting him know I’ll explain later.

  Grabbing the needed files, I head out, a little disappointed when I find that Evie’s door is still closed. Why am I in a hurry to run into her? I’m sure she’s furious, and the last thing I’ll see before I die will be an orange-tinted Evie with her hands wrapped around my neck.

  With Justin gone, I stop at Kylie’s desk on my way out. She’s talking to some guy from the mailroom and so I pull out my phone while I wait.

  “Just make sure that anything with a PO box goes straight to Mr. Kingman, okay? He was very specific about that.”

  “Post office box. Got it,” the kid says, typing a note into a little handheld machine. “Later, Ky.”

  Kylie peeks around the departing employee and smiles widely at me. “Carter! How are you?”

  “I’m well, how are you?”

  “Great! Want to grab lunch today?”

  I make a show of looking disappointed, when in fact I’m a little relieved to have an excuse. “I’m meeting a client,” I say, and her face falls into an attractive pout. Something tells me that look almost always works. “I was just leaving, but wanted to see if we could get someone to check my phone.”

  “Your phone?”

  “Something’s wrong with the volume,” I tell her.

  She follows me down the hall, picking up the handset and holding it up to her ear, pressing the volume buttons a few times before unscrewing the earpiece.

  “Oh,” she says, and I lean in, too. “There’s a piece of tape in here. That’s weird.”

  Carefully, she removes the offending item and puts the handset back together.

  I stare at the curl of plastic in her outstretched palm. “Yeah. Weird.”

  On her way out, she leans against the doorway instead. “Glad I could help. Don’t be afraid to call if you, uh . . . need anything else,” she says, pausing at the sound of Evie’s opening door. “Or want to grab lunch sometime . . .”

  Evie steps out into the hall and pauses behind where Kylie stands, now straighter in awareness.

  With a little smile and a quiet “Hi, Evie,” Kylie heads down the hall.

  Leaning against her open doorway with a pair of—thank God—normal-colored arms folded across her chest, Evie smiles at me. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Close your door next time?”

  Ignoring this, I tell her, “Funny story: my phone wasn’t working and Kylie helped me figure out why. Seems someone put a piece of tape over the earpiece. Wonder who would have done that?”

  “No idea,” Evie says with a shrug. “I just got in. But if we’re going by the number of people who are out to make you look bad, there’s probably a few to choose from.”r />
  “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, genuinely offended now, and following when she pushes away from her door and heads into the break room. “People like me. You’re the one they’re afraid of.”

  She pulls a mug down from the cupboard and pours herself a cup of coffee. “Okay, Carter.”

  “What do you mean—?” I stop in my tracks. “Don’t do that.”

  She slowly pours cream into her cup and looks up at me. “Do what?”

  “Pretend that none of this gets to you. Play some juvenile mind game.”

  “You’re the one who followed me down here.” Unaffected, she puts the cream away and heads for the door.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Fine.”

  Her evil laugh rings down the hallway.

  chapter seventeen

  evie

  Steph—Steph—taping Carter’s phone was pretty great.

  So simple.

  Maybe my best idea ever.

  Evie, did you do something to Carter’s suit?

  The one that was in the bathroom?

  What? I can’t hear you.

  I’m going through Laurel Canyon.

  We’re texting, asshole.

  Did you?

  Maybe a little

  In which case I’m going to change my previous answer and say that THIS was my best idea ever.

  Sigh

  Don’t worry!

  A little fun, totally harmless.

  You realize this isn’t normal behavior, right??

  chapter eighteen

  carter

  Things have not been pretty at P&D. Monday was the stupid tape incident. Tuesday I snuck a pretty healthy splash of Dave’s Ghost Pepper hot sauce into Evie’s burrito, and quite enjoyed her angry, sexy little growl as she ran back to the break room and chugged down some half-and-half we keep in the fridge. She returned the favor on Wednesday by soaking my desk chair so my ass was visibly wet for the rest of my meetings.

  She didn’t come straight to the office Thursday, so I didn’t get to enjoy how she might have looked with all the glitter I put in the vents of her car, but it was a chilly morning and I’m sure the glitter got pretty sticky when it blew out with all that nice warm air. Admittedly, after that I was so paranoid she’d booby-trapped my office that I could barely touch anything without wincing. She stopped by at the end of the day—still a little sparkly around the hairline—just in time to see me bite into what I thought was a candy apple from Kylie but was actually a candy onion from Evie.

  I was thwarted in my desire to murder her by the news that Steve Gainor in Television was let go. Nothing like a dose of reality to put things in perspective.

  We’re supposed to be on set with Jonah by eight thirty on Friday, but my Evil paranoia has me there by eight, standing outside the locked studio, shivering. My jacket feels tight—my pants, too—and I can barely wrap my arms around my shoulders to keep warm.

  Great. All the stress-eating is taking a toll.

  About half of the crew arrives a few minutes after I do, including Jamie’s manager, who—as soon as we get inside—begins arguing with the Vanity Fair creative director and one of Jonah’s assistants about the lighting.

  “Carter, hey,” Allie says, excusing herself and crossing over to where craft services are just starting to set up behind me.

  “Hey.” Just like Brad mentioned when he initially placed Jamie on my list, Allie is what you would call a hands-on manager. Whereas some managers are just yes men, there to make their client happy and get a producer credit along the way, Allie is involved in almost every aspect of Jamie’s career. My life will be a hell of a lot easier because of it. “Do we know what time to expect Jamie—?”

  “She just got here,” she says, nodding over to a doorway leading to the dressing rooms. “She’s in her room with her trainer.”

  “Great.”

  “That’s how we roll.” Her eyes follow some of the caterers as they begin unloading. She taps one of them on the shoulder as she sets down a tray of cookies, and points to the rest wrapped in cellophane. “There are no raisins in any of these, right?”

  The woman looks at a label on the bottom of a tray and then consults a well-worn clipboard. “Food allergy? I didn’t see that on the order.”

  “Fussy actress,” Allie corrects, and the caterer offers her an understanding smile.

  “Let’s see,” the woman says, scanning the pages before stopping on an itemized list. “We have coffee and tea service, soda, fruit juices, ice water with assorted citrus, energy drinks, chocolate chip cookies, assorted Danishes, sports bars . . .” She rattles off a seemingly endless list, flipping through the papers again before smiling up at Allie. “The only raisins should be in the trail mix and it will be clearly labeled.”

  Allie gives her the thumbs-up and turns back to me. I snag a cookie from the tray and then pause, looking down at it. My suit is becoming increasingly uncomfortable, like Spanx. Have I put on that much weight? Absently, I touch my stomach.

  “Jamie is fussy about raisins?”

  Allie nods. “She’s one of the most level-headed actresses I’ve worked with, but, Lord, is she particular about her food.” I raise a brow and Allie waves me off. “Don’t worry, she’s not a diva or anything and would never hold up a shoot, she’s just really, really particular.”

  “As in particular with a side of losing it?”

  “Borderline?” she says, grinning. “But regardless, that’s why I’m here.” Her phone dings and she swipes across the screen. “Which is more than I can say for Seamus. I’ll take care of Jamie; you just make sure he’s on his best behavior today.”

  “Seamus is Evelyn Abbey’s problem, not mine.” I casually scan the room for Evil over Allie’s shoulder, not sure if I feel more pleased or disappointed when I don’t see her.

  “Good luck to her, is all I have to say. He’s so used to having his head filled with adoration on that YouTube channel of his that he can’t take a simple no. I know it’s a sign of the times, but he got his start on the same platform where my nine-year-old uploads her What’s in My Backpack videos. Kids today want to be famous. You ask them, ‘Famous for what?’ and they don’t care. Did you know that at Seamus’s first YouTube photo shoot he wanted his own toilet seat and Kanye’s Graduation album played on a continual loop—and when he didn’t like the color scheme in one of the set designs, he said he’d be back when it was repainted?” Allie scans the area. “He will lose the plot one day, mark my words.”

  I nod, having heard all of this—and more. “If you feel that way, then why on earth did you encourage Jamie to take this part?”

  She lowers her voice. “Because Jamie needs this role, and right now Seamus is hot. Let him pay six hundred dollars for a hipster reflexologist to blow marijuana smoke in his face and balance his fucking chakras—I don’t care. But here? He’d better show up and do the work, not fly off the handle. Pretty early in his game to start showing his ass.”

  I laugh. “I’ll be sure to give my colleague the heads-up. And keep those raisins away from Jamie.”

  “I will.” Allie switches off her phone and slips it into her pocket. “Let me know when the photographer is here.”

  I give her a tight smile when I realize that means Jonah still hasn’t materialized. “Will do.”

  I turn and almost run right into Evie.

  Shit. “Oops, didn’t see you eavesdropping behind me.”

  “Eavesdropping?” She pulls back to give me an amused smile. “Oh, Carter. You love hearing yourself talk enough for the both of us.”

  Like they have a mind of their own, my eyes quickly skirt down the length of her body and back up again. She’s wearing a sleeveless button-down shirt dress, with the top two buttons open, exposing collarbone and just a hint of cleavage, and I’m left momentarily speechless by her shoulders and her boobs. When I meet her gaze, the corner of her mouth twitches and I know that I’m busted.

  “I see all your buttons are accounted for today,
” I say.

  “See? That wasn’t so hard. You’ll learn this workplace etiquette with more seasoning, sport.”

  I turn as she slips past me. “It was simply a battle between workplace etiquette and a complete lack of interest,” I call after her. “Lack of interest won.”

  She stops, spinning slowly to face me, and I feel sweat prick at the back of my neck. My suit seems to shrink further. Instinctively, I tighten my fingers around the cookie in one hand and the phone in the other, feeling every one of my stupid texts with Michael Christopher flash before my eyes. I can’t help but worry the sentiment in each is scrolling across my face, too.

  I nearly put my face in Evie’s boobs in her office.

  Keep reminding me that she’s Lucifer.

  Right. Lucifer. Remember, Carter: it’s essentially her or you.

  “Did I touch a nerve?” I ask.

  There’s the slightest twitch in her jaw, one so slight it would probably go unnoticed by someone who hasn’t memorized every inch of her face.

  Her posture becomes less rigid, her expression suddenly softer. “How are you feeling today? You good?”

  Confused by this change of tactic, I instinctively want to cover my crotch. Instead, I straighten, taking the smallest step back. “Why?”

  “No reason,” she says with a casual shrug. “You just look a little, I don’t know . . . fluffier than normal.”

  There’s a distinct emphasis on the word fluffier, and I feel naked and afraid as her eyes drop all the way down my body and back up, before she takes the cookie from me.

  “Are you depressed?” she asks, tossing it into the trash. Smiling sweetly at me, she coos, “Carter, you don’t need that.”

  It takes a minute for the pattern of her questions to register—How are you feeling today? You good? Fluffier than normal . . . —and then I get it: Evie fucked with my suit.

  I would strangle her right now if I had more range of motion inside this tiny jacket. But instead, as I watch her walk triumphantly down the hall, I pull my phone from my pocket, open the saved post in my browser, and hit submit.

  One . . .